


hands on me

by downtheroadandupthehill



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: F/F, Masturbation, Sexual Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-11
Updated: 2014-05-11
Packaged: 2018-01-24 09:44:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1600349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/downtheroadandupthehill/pseuds/downtheroadandupthehill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Combeferre can’t tease herself for long, though, not like Grantaire would. When she presses two fingers forward and shifts her hips against them, she hears her own breath hitch and her heart beating faster.</p>
            </blockquote>





	hands on me

**Author's Note:**

> Wrote this drabble ages ago and posted it on tumblr. Find me on tumblr at andromachey.tumblr.com.

When Combeferre closes her eyes, slides her hand down between her legs and slips three fingers into her black, cotton underwear, she’s no longer at surprised at what (or who, which seems much more apt) her imagination has decided to conjure up. She thinks of half-lidded blue eyes, red lips curved in half a smirk. Her hands aren’t her own—instead of long, elegant fingers that are strong and sure after nearly decades of piano, she imagines fingers tipped with blunt fingernails that are coated in chipped blue nail polish, their deftness speaking more to experience at this act in particular than anything else.

(Not that those hands aren’t good for anything but sex—there’s boxing and drawing and painting and sculpting, and  _how is she so brilliant_ _?_  But that’s something for Combeferre to cradle her head in her hands and sigh dreamily over later, once she relieves this ache that is decidedly more immediate than the one in her heart.)

_Her_  fingers—rougher, maybe, and probably (definitely) better, too.

_I can play you like a fucking instrument though_ , Grantaire might murmur in her ear, and chuckle at her own stupid joke, while her index finger circles in an endless tease.  _Just how loud can I make you scream for me._

Combeferre can’t tease herself for long, though, not like Grantaire would. When she presses two fingers forward and shifts her hips against them, she hears her own breath hitch and her heart beating faster.

Even with the ceiling fan on, it’s suddenly too hot beneath the sheet—that gets kicked to the end of the bed in a hurry, as Combeferre spreads her legs further and arches her hips up  _up_  and her fingers are circling again but this time not to tease—pushing down hard just so and  _oh fuck_.

She’d be loud for Grantaire, she thinks, but when it’s just her and thin drywall separating her from a sleeping Enjolras, she has to grit her teeth to keep quiet. Bites down on her bottom lip, too, because that is something Grantaire would do. Combeferre has seen her bite her own lips before, watched her do it, until they’re pink and chapped and she masks it under layers of lip balm and scarlet lipstick. Sometimes it’s smudged at the corners, like maybe she’s been kissing someone, or maybe she simply isn’t careful with it.

She likes that Grantaire isn’t careful, isn’t meticulous like Combeferre is. Wild and ragged and _brilliant_.

Now she’s thinking of Grantaire’s lips. Her tongue swirling slow and languid around each of Combeferre’s nipples, leaving them both pert and red. Combeferre’s free hand moves from her side, up and up to squeeze her breast, feel her nipple harden beneath her palm. She pinches it between forefinger and thumb, and her hips buck against her hand and she lets out a quiet moan.

_That’s what I like to hear_ , Grantaire would say, and nip at her with her teeth again.

(Earlier that night, Combeferre watched with a blank expression as Grantaire bared those teeth and growled playfully.That she had done so at a frowning Enjolras was only typical.)

Combeferre keeps her eyes closed as the tip of her middle finger dips lower to where she’s _soaking_ , and her fingers move slicker and smoother and faster now, more urgently.

_There you go_. Grantaire’s voice husky in her ear, her breath hot, and perhaps she’d be panting in time with Combeferre, too.  _Now what do you sound like when you come with my name in your mouth_.

There’s an arc of pleasure—no fireworks—and her toes are curling into her sheets and another little wordless moan leaves her. After a moment, her fingers make a tentative movement, but her hips jerk and stutter and slump in response. Not again tonight, then, though it might be different with someone else.

(She  _doesn’t_  think about Grantaire’s hands pinning her down, leaving bruises on her wrists or her hips as she takes her apart with her mouth, while she writhes and sobs and squeezes Grantaire’s head with her thighs.)

It’s supposed to be relaxing—Combeferre is certain there is physical, medical, anatomical proof of this in one of her textbooks, somewhere. Orgasm equals endorphins equals sleep. But there’s no peace to be had now. A vague sense of guilt, maybe, over getting off while thinking about one of her friends. And doing it consistently, too. Grantaire herself would probably snort and scoff and proceed to gaze over Combeferre’s shoulder at Enjolras if she somehow ever found out.

Combeferre allows herself a few minute off tossing and turning in her too-warm bed before she gives up and fumbles for her glasses on the nightstand, flicks on the lamp, and finds a decidedly unsexy philosophy book to distract herself with.


End file.
